


And that's when the chandelier fell

by Defira



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awakening, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dragon Age AU, Gift Fic, Intrigue, Multi, Orlais, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birthday story for the marvellous Hawkeward, of Tumblr, featuring her very fabulous Farrah Amell, Hero of the Fifth Blight and Commander of the Grey. Farrah is a Warden I am particularly fond of, and Hawkeward herself is someone I am inordinately fond of, and so a birthday fic was in order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game: And How to Play It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hawkeward](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hawkeward).



> The story is based on this lovely piece of art by Hawkeward herself, featuring Farrah and Justice in fancy dress on their way to an Orlesian masquerade. My imagination ran away with me, wondering how they came to be at an Orlesian party in the first place, and let's face it, Justice looks so very _dapper_ in that outfit :D
> 
>  

The White Spire had been visible in the distance long before the shoreline had, the light of the beacon like a low lying star as Farrah stood by the railing before dawn. The pitch of the deck was not something she was accustomed to yet, even after two weeks at sea, nor was the constant noise of the voyage. She’d always thought the sea to be quite placid and soothing- sadly based entirely on her experiences with Lake Calenhad, where apart from the occasional storm, the lake was entirely flat- but the noises of the ocean never ceased, it seemed. The waves slapping at the hull, even on gentle days; the creak of the ropes and groan of the timbers; the unceasing movement of the crew- all of it threw her off, far more than she’d expected it to.

She swore that even in the quieter moments she could hear the rats chatting to one another down in the hold.

And now here she was, at some ungodly hour, clutching at the railing in what would politely be described as a death-grip, and staring at the golden pinprick in the distance that the lookout had called attention to about ten minutes earlier. The shout itself was what had roused her from her lacklustre attempts at sleep anyway, so she’d thrown a shawl on over her night clothes, tugged on her boots, and stumbled up the stairs to the deck to see what all the fuss was about. She shivered and rubbed at her arms through the shawl, careful not to let go as the boat pitched into the curve of another wave. It didn’t stop the spray from reaching her, and she flinched backwards as another cold bluster rose up and soaked the front of her quite thoroughly. 

Muttering vilely to herself, she stumbled back from the railing and patted ineffectively at the sodden cloth, trying to keep her balance in the dim half light cast by the single lantern up by the helmsman. It wasn’t even bad weather, not so far as she could tell- they’d gone through a real storm half a week ago, and even _that_ hadn’t fazed the crew- but Maker what she wouldn’t give for earth between her toes and nothing more threatening than a mud puddle to worry about. 

There was a pile of crates stacked haphazardly around the mast, lashed together with a web of ropes- the captain had apparently taken on more cargo than was sensible- and she staggered across the deck towards them, trying to time her steps to the rolling of the deck. “Should be used to this by now, Farrah old girl,” she muttered to herself, mistiming the last step and basically hurling herself onto the crates. She bit off a curse as she grazed her shin, wincing and rubbing it as she settled back onto the boxes, shivering and wondering why in the Void she’d thought it was a good idea to come above deck in the first place.

Glancing around surreptitiously to make sure the handful of sailors awake at this hour were nowhere nearby, she cupped her hands together and called up a tiny flame, sighing in relief at the gentle warmth it put out. 

She didn’t hear the footsteps over the creaking of the ship, and didn’t realise there was someone practically on top of her in the dark until he spoke. “I believe the captain asked you to desist from using magic whilst onboard,” Justice said with a hint of reproach in his voice. Farrah started in alarm, the flame vanishing instantly. “His reasoning was flawed, but that is no reason to disrespect his request.”

Farrah scowled at him, glad the dark hid the guilty blush on her cheeks. “Superstitious nonsense,” she said, shuffling over on the crate and gesturing for him to join her. “Makes about as much sense as them being afraid of having a cat onboard. Or having to wait an extra day to leave port because the omens weren’t in our favour.” She just resisted rolling her eyes. “Anyway. That’s hardly the point. What are you doing up and about at this hour?”

“I was not sleeping in the first place,” he said, in that grave fashion of his, taking the seat that was offered. He sat ramrod straight, as always, but there was an air about him that he had not had when he’d first entered the mortal realm so many months ago now. She hesitated to say he was _relaxed_ , but there was definitely something casual about him, something comfortable and quiet about the way he held himself, the way he spoke. It brought a half smile to her face as he continued. “You should be aware by now that I have no need for sleep.”

“Yeah, but I hardly expect to see you lurking on a dark, wet ship deck in the middle of the night, either. I assumed you’d be below deck with the others.” She’d been lucky enough to be given her own cabin- if the tiny cupboard she inhabited could be called a cabin. She had to kneel on the bed in order to get the door open- as had Sigrun, but Justice and Anders were sharing for the sake of practicality. Meaning, Woolsey had pitched a fit when she’d realised how much the trip to Orlais was costing in the first place, and had demanded that she be allowed to overlook the itinerary for the purpose of cost cutting. They’d gone from a passenger ship to a cargo runner with a few rooms to spare, and the boys had been given the short straw.

“Anders has been commenting unceasingly about how my inability to sleep unnerves him.” If Justice were human, she would have said he sounded wryly amused in that moment. “I suggested that if he were perhaps to stop talking about finding me unnerving, he might be able to sleep with a little more ease.”

Farrah bit her lip to hold back on a chuckle. “You told Anders to shut up and go to sleep?”

“I believe I included stop whining as well. He did not take kindly to either of those suggestions.”

She couldn’t help it- she laughed. The sound was quickly swallowed up by the wind, and sounded sort of eerie in the dark, but she told herself that the sailor’s superstitions were nonsense. “Justice, I can’t believe you told someone to shut up and stop whining. I’m so proud of you! Look at how far you’ve come in the last few weeks.”

“And further still, apparently,” he said quietly, eyes turned towards the horizon. “They say we will make land in Orlais today. Is that correct?”

He would of course have overheard it through idle gossip amongst the crew, because none of them had dared to speak to him directly. Most of them muttered prayers to the Maker whenever he drew near, and a few of them were openly hostile. Only the admonitions of the captain, and Farrah’s steely glare whenever they got too aggravated, kept them from going too far with their distrust. “Apparently so,” she said, hugging the shawl further around her shoulders and hunching into it in the vain hope for warmth. “The light over by the horizon isn’t a star, it’s the beacon on top of the White Spire. When the sun comes up we should be able to see the coastline. I think we’ll make port in the early afternoon.”

He turned his head in the direction she indicated, looking for the pinprick of light in the darkness. His silence should have given her ample warning before he said “The White Spire? That is the home of the Templar order, those who would oppress the mages. Perhaps there will be some benefit to our-”

“Oh, no no no, stop that thinking,” she said hastily. “We’re here for the sake of diplomacy, and hopefully to find some rich, bored sponsors who want to throw money at the embattled Ferelden order and the glorious Hero of the Blight.” She said the last with a tinge of sarcasm, her mouth twisting unhappily at the overblown acclamation. “We’re not here to protest at the Divine herself about the plight of mages.”

“But Farrah-”

“No matter how much you or I might want to, this is not the time or the place,” she said pointedly, speaking over the top of his objection. “We can enquire quietly and politely, but if I turn around to find you storming the steps of the Grand Cathedral I will not be happy. They won’t take kindly to that, and I’m worried they’ll have a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ approach to the sight of a corpse charging towards them. Understood?”

He looked just as unhappy as he sounded. “Understood, Commander.”

Ouch. He only resorted back to Commander when he was most displeased with her decisions. Well, she wasn’t here to coddle tempestuous spirits when they threw a tantrum, no matter how much she adored him. “Alright then,” she said, suddenly weary. This journey, and the lack of sleep, had been more draining than she’d expected, and sitting in wet clothes arguing with Justice in the small hours of the morning was never the best way to finish it off. “I’m going to head back to bed, see if I can’t get a few more hours rest before we dock. You should think about resting too.”

“I am quite content here,” he said, and for all intents and purposes he did look like he was fine. “I believe, since I am out of the way of the crew, I shall sit here and observe the sunrise. That shall amuse me for some time.”

She shrugged. “Okay, just don’t go pitching over the side while I’m gone,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “I can’t swim to jump in after you.”

“I have no need to breath, Commander, so I would not drown. You need not fear.”

“No, but I’m betting it’s a long walk along the seabed to Val Royeaux,” she quipped, “and I’m pretty sure you don’t speak fish to ask for directions.”

“What need would I have for directions?” he asked, and it took her a moment to spot the sparkle in his eyes against the dark of the morning.

“Argh!” she said, swatting at his arm, “typical male!” But she couldn’t help the smile as she ducked back below deck to pretend she was sleeping for a few more hours. 

***

They docked a little after midday, pulling into the magnificent harbour of Val Royeaux with thankfully little fanfare. Farrah had half dreaded seeing the piers packed with curious well-wishers, in a scene reminiscent of the parades through Denerim in the aftermath of the battle with the Archdemon. To her great relief, there was only a single carriage waiting for them, and a young man in an elaborately stylish rendition of the sturdy blue armour they wore back home in Amaranthine. 

The four Wardens lined the railing, watching in awe of the grand city as the slipped easily into berth, and Sigrun was the first to notice the blond Warden strolling down the stone causeway towards them.

“That can’t possibly be Warden armour,” she said, pointing towards the fellow in question. “No, he waved, he’s definitely a Warden. By the Stone, those are some shiny boots!”

“You must resist the urge to steal them,” Justice said instantly, rousing a chuckle from Farrah and Sigrun.

“What a fop!” Anders said, leaning heavily on the railing and watching the Warden approach. “Look at his hair, he must spend hours curling it for it to look like that.”

“And how long did it take you to pack for this trip, you preening popinjay you?” Sigrun elbowed him, which of course was at the wrong height for it to have the desired effect, but her point was made. “Prissier than a Marcher girl at her debut, you are.”

“The only thing you know about Marcher girls is from those ridiculous romance novels you read,” Anders said loftily, “which is to say, not very much.”

“It’s still not a compliment, Anders,” Farrah said, shaking her head in mock disbelief as she laughed.

He sniffed haughtily at the pair of them. “You are both savages with no taste in clothing, or literature, and I will not take such slander lying down.”

“Oooh, watch out Commander, he’s gonna put frogs in our beds.”

“I will turn you both into frogs, you miscreants,” he muttered.

The crew had lowered the gangplank, and the ship was securely tied to the wharf with ropes nearly as thick around as Farrah’s torso. Watching the newcomer with interest as she moved towards the ramp, she raised her hand in greeting to match his. “Ho there, Warden,” she called, unsure what to make of a greeting party of one. It was what she’d hoped for, certainly, but not what she’d expected. “Good day to you.”

“And to you, messere,” he called in a pleasant alto, his accent surprisingly minimal. He dropped into a practised bow as Farrah descended onto the wharf, the little flourish with his hand eliciting a giggle from Sigrun behind her. “I can scarce believe I have the opportunity to greet the Hero of Ferelden herself! You are just as lovely as the tales tell!”

Behind her, both Sigrun and Anders made choking noises that could have been laughter. “Flattery isn’t necessary,” she said irritably, feeling her cheeks burning. She felt her legs wobble as she settled on solid ground, and it was all she could do not to reach out for the pylons that lined the wharf for balance. “Hello is fine.” 

“Ah, but how can I pass up the opportunity to lavish praise on such a wondrous woman?” he replied, taking her reluctant hand in his and bowing low over it. Behind her Sigrun kept giggling and she gritted her teeth. “A hero we expected, but such a beautiful one as well?” His hair was as immaculately styled as Anders had accused him of, perfectly coiled ringlets hanging around his ears and bouncing as he moved. She couldn’t decide if it made him look more rakish or more childish. 

She smiled thinly at him. “Messere, I assure you, I have no need for empty adulation-”

“Nonsense!” he decreed, tucking her arm through his before she could protest. “You are deserving of the highest praise, as is only fitting of the woman who-”

There was a sudden looming presence, and Justice was very abruptly pressing up behind them, his face set to a very severe frown. “If you are out to woo Farrah, it is a poor use of your time. Hollow compliments and flippant smiles are best saved for another individual.”

She could have quite happily sunk into the ground at that moment; to have another Warden castigated on her behalf before they’d even been properly introduced… and by a damned spirit, of all things. As much as she adored Justice, she could quite happily have strangled him in that moment. Sigrun had given up her attempts to keep her laughter contained and had both her hands over her mouth in an effort to appear not quite so loud as she all but screeched with merriment, and Anders wasn’t that far behind her. 

The Warden on her arm blinked several times. “I appear to have missed something,” he said slowly, glancing from Farrah to Justice and back again.

Before Justice could interject and make the situation even more uncomfortable than it already was, Farrah said from between gritted teeth “I’m not really the wooing type.”

Her companion blinked once or twice more, before realisation dawned in his eyes- followed closely by what looked like quickly masked relief. “You don’t say?” he said, casting one last look behind them at Justice, still looming inappropriately close- she’d have to have another talk with him about personal space, it seemed- before leading her down the wharf towards the waiting carriage. “That is most fortunate for the both of us, for I’m not entirely _adroit_ when it comes to wooing the fairer sex.”

She raised her eyebrows and he winked at her. “Now, your dashing friend in the robes? He is much more to my… persuasion.”

Farrah couldn’t help but laugh. “Is this customary in Orlais? To exchange sexual preferences before exchanging names?”

He had the good grace to look abashed. “You must forgive me, Commander,” he said, dropping his voice so that the Wardens following behind them were less likely to hear, “but I was given fairly _explicit_ instructions as to how to greet and entertain you upon arrival.”

She raised her eyebrows at that. The Wardens had sent one of their own in the capacity of- what? Doxy? Was he supposed to seduce her to better understand her and report back to his superiors? Did they just assume that she’d need or want sexual attention the moment she arrived? “How nice for you,” she said dryly. “Was there a name on those instructions at the very least? Something I can call you other than ‘you there, the blond one’?”

They came to a stop beside the carriage and he graced her with another rakish smile- for the benefit of the others, she was certain. “But of course, where are my manners?” he said, offering her a hand up into the dim interior of the cab. “I am Remy Fareaux, of the Orlesian order of Grey Wardens, most recently of Montsimmard.” Behind him, she saw Anders’ eyebrows dart up towards his hairline at the mention of the city that housed the Orlesian Circle. “You may of course refer to me as Remy, or Captain Fareaux, if you are inclined to be more formal, but Remy is fine, I assure you. And you of course are Commander Farrah.”

“I am,” she said blandly, climbing up into the carriage without his help and settling herself onto the seat. Sigrun was next, introducing herself as politely as possible given that she’d been chortling hysterically at the poor fellow not two minutes earlier. She accepted his hand up graciously, winking at Farrah as she took the seat opposite. Justice introduced himself loudly and abruptly- she could almost hear his inner struggle as to whether or not he should warn him off further, and she bit her lip in amusement, sharing a look with Sigrun- and he very pointedly took the seat beside Farrah when he climbed into the little cabin. 

Anders was last, of course, and he smirked a little with his introduction, part suspicious, part amusement at the fellow having misjudged them so badly so far. Farrah rolled her eyes as the two men exchanged flowery, veiled greetings, trying not to grin as Anders finally climbed into the cab and took the last seat. Remy closed the door and appeared in the window frame.

“Your belongings will be transferred from the docks separately,” he said, with what was evidently meant to be a winning smile. “My duty is to see you safely to your lodgings with as much haste as possible, because you must be tired after your journey.” He tsked in an almost matronly manner, looking over their salt stained clothes. “And we will see to it that you are fed and refreshed as well.”

The moment he was out of sight- presumably to sit with the driver and guide them through the city- Anders opened his mouth and said “Well if that wasn’t-”

Farrah put a finger to her lips immediately, indicating silence. “Not now,” she said calmly, smiling broadly. She gestured to the view out the window. “Let’s just enjoy the ride, and the city, and save the talking for later.” 

Because she wasn’t entirely certain that their conversation would be private.

***

She was expecting the barracks, or some rough military style accommodation; they didn’t exactly live the high life in Amaranthine. So she was slightly taken aback when the carriage pulled up into the courtyard of what appeared to be a private villa, only a stone’s throw from the palace district. A fountain bubbled merrily in the centre of the round, and climbing roses adorned the far wall of the yard. 

Sigrun was nearly beside herself, having stared in slack jawed wonder at the towers and minarets of one of the oldest cities in Thedas. The noise of the city was impressive too, endless bustle and fuss, the colours and movement just as irritating as the sounds and the shouting; Farrah was quite certain she could feel a headache brewing at the back of her skull by the time the carriage stopped. 

Anders and Justice followed at a somewhat more sedate pace as Farrah and Sigrun trailed politely after Remy, listening to him wax lyrical about the extravagant luxuries of their villa for the two weeks they were in Orlais. 

“And here we have the parlour, with the most marvellous view back down to the sea,” he said, gesturing expansively towards the open balcony on the far wall. Farrah had to grudgingly admit that the view was fairly spectacular, but she was more interested in the smells wafting from the kitchen at the back of the villa. They had skipped lunch in their haste to reach port, and now her stomach was rumbling pitifully. “You’ll of course have time to relax, and your bags will be brought through shortly, and we will prepare for the gala tonight.”

“The what now?” Farrah said, momentarily surprised enough to let her shock show.

“A proper Orlesian ball?” Sigrun said, almost gleefully giddy. 

“Indeed,” Remy said, smiling indulgently at her. “Now, if you will excuse me, I will hasten to the kitchen and see that everything is in order for you to break your fast.”

He left them to settle in, promising to return soon with food, and to hunt down servants to acquire hot bath water. The moment he was gone, Farrah’s smile dropped and she rubbed wearily at the back of her neck. “Well, that was… interesting.”

“He as quite a character, wasn’t he?” Sigrun said, flopping down onto the luxurious divan by the window. She looked content as a cat, lounging in the sunbeam as if it were the most decadent delight. “He’s just as bad as I imagined they’d be. He even looks sort of like the hero from _The Rake of Jader_.”

“Oh Maker, not more of those terrible books,” Anders moaned, slumped with his head on his arms at the only table in the suite.

“Am I the only one who saw it?” Farrah said, glancing about at the three of them. “Nobody else noticed?”

“He attempted to woo you,” Justice said gravely, still frowning. “That was most inappropriate of him. He should have more concern for your wellbeing than simply copulation.”

As always, Justice’s complete and utter lack of tact both appalled and amused her, and she choked on her words for a moment as both Sigrun and Anders spluttered helplessly with laughter. “Justice, no, that’s not…” She trailed off awkwardly. It wasn’t the first time she’d have to talk to him about discretion and being considerate of other’s feelings, and it wouldn’t be the last time either. She sighed instead. “Moving on. None of you noticed what he was doing? You didn’t perhaps read about anything in particular that Orlesians are fond of doing that befuddles and ensnares most foreigners?”

The silence was painful, with Justice frowning and Anders and Sigrun exchanging confused glances. Farrah sighed in frustration and settled herself down onto the divan, gesturing to Anders and then to her temples. He thankfully got the message and came to stand behind her, placing two fingers on either side of her head and letting his magic flow. As he dispersed her headache, she continued. “It’s The Game. Captain Fareaux was almost certainly playing us. I’d say it was a test, really, to see how susceptible we are.”

“To what end?” Sigrun asked, frowning as well.

Farrah shrugged. “It could be the Wardens, checking to see that we won’t be an embarrassment and a liability. It could be so ingrained that the Captain just couldn’t help himself and wanted to toy with the uninitiated newcomers. Or it could be very deliberate, and we are going to have to be very careful with what we say and do over the next few weeks, at all costs.”

Anders scoffed as he finished off the healing. “Or, perhaps, maybe you’re just being a little paranoid? Remy was a decent enough sort, if a little over friendly-”

“He showered me with compliments to test our comfort levels,” she said, ticking it off on her fingers, “and when Justice derailed that approach, he instead tried to curry sympathy with me by implying he was being used by higher powers as nothing more than a whore, even though his preferences tend elsewhere.” She looked quite pointedly at Anders, glaring up at him over her shoulder. “He then made subtle hints as to where his preferences might lie, as if encouraging me to assist in any romantic advances he might choose to make to certain people.”

Anders went bright red, and spluttered “You certainly don’t mean-”

“Don’t act the prude, Anders, neither of us believes it,” she said wryly. She caught his hand with hers before he pulled away though, giving them a quick squeeze. “He then makes special mention of the fact that he is recently of Montsimmard, an unusual thing to announce in the presence of two free mages. It’s certainly not the kind of thing one simply blurts out as a conversation starter- ‘ _oh don’t mind me; I’ve just gotten back from one of the oldest Circle Towers in all of Thedas_ ’. That was a deliberate play, to unnerve us, to make us question his loyalty just when he’s gone out of his way to treat us as trusted confidantes and colleagues.

“And this,” she said, gesturing to their rather sumptuous surroundings, “all this extravagance, but it was too much for our food, or our baths, to be waiting for us? We quite clearly took the long way through the city, to show off the sites and the power of the mighty Orlesian Empire, but even with that extra time the Captain has to go and find what’s taking so long with our amenities?” She sank back, leaning against Anders’ legs as he politely stayed in place for her. “The whole thing was a play, right from the start. And I don’t know whether we passed or not.”

Her words were met with stunned silence, and Justice was the first to break it. “So this Captain Remy is to be treated as a foe,” he said simply, with what would have passed as glee were he human.

Farrah shook her head. “No Justice, that’s the wrong way to approach this. It’s not as simple as black and white here, friend and foe. Remy is either a dangerous friend, or a friendly enemy. Either way, we cannot let our guard down for even a moment.”

“You mean to tell me that, not only are we going to an Orlesian ball,” Sigrun said breathlessly, “but we’re also embroiled in The Game and we’ve not even been here for a day?” 

“Oh Maker, Sigrun,” Farrah said, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Contrary to what the name suggests, The Game is not in fact any sort of game we want to be playing. These people spend their whole lives doing this, and if the Captain is any sort of example, I don’t think anyone is going to go easy on us just because I’m unfortunately famous.”

“Still, it could come in useful for everyone to think we’re bumbling Ferelden turnip farmers,” Anders said, rubbing at his jaw with a conniving look in his eyes. “Double play them, as it were.”

“I’m fairly certain we can expect such tactics from everyone else,” Farrah said, “so I wouldn’t be surprised if they are in fact expecting such a play from us.”

Sigrun flopped backwards onto the couch, head hanging off the edge and into the sunbeam. “Oh Ancestors,” she muttered, “it always seemed a bit less complex than that in the stories. Or, you know, there was always a dashing hero who was able to deflect all the suspicion and win the court over anyway with his brilliance and charm. Like in _The Duke’s Secret Mistress_ , or _Orlesian Concubine, Orlesian Treasure_.”

Farrah groaned. “Sigrun, every time I think you’ve shown me the worst book possible, you pull out another one. How can you even read those?”

Before Sigrun could respond, Anders cleared his throat in that very self-satisfied manner she knew so well. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to brag, but we do have someone on hand possessing both charm _and_ brilliance,” he said with feigned modesty.

She snorted. “Nuh uh, you’re not putting yourself in harm’s way at all.” At his pointed look, she sighed. “Alright, no more than normal.”

“Normal around you is such a bizarre concept, Farrah. It usually involves ancient tombs and dragons and talking darkspawn. What’s a little court intrigue when compared to that?”

“Well, the likelihood of us waking up on the floor after having drunk something strange is just as likely,” Sigrun said eagerly.

The comment was ridiculous enough to have them all in fits of laughter, and even Justice seemed bemused enough by their outburst to smile that half smile of his as he watched the three of them loll all over the couch. 

Wiping her eyes, Farrah said “Okay, enough. Captain Tease will be back any minute now, if he’s not already listening outside the door. Just remember to stay on your toes, and be suspicious of everything he-”

“Here we are,” Remy sang cheerfully, far too buoyant for someone simply announcing the arrival of lunch. Farrah smiled to herself, unsure whether Remy was being ridiculously obvious because he didn’t know any better and had underestimated them, or because he knew precisely what he was at, and wanted to throw them off the trail. A handful of elves crept in after him, bearing platters of food enough to feed five times their number. “Eat! Drink! Sustain yourselves, dear friends. We have much to discuss, and much to plan! The masquerade is in but a few short hours, and I am sure you will have many questions before now.”

Sigrun set upon the food with apparent glee, but Anders was much more subdued in his responses, and watched Remy so carefully that Farrah could have groaned. Justice was even worse, standing vigil in the corner, never taking his eyes off the Orlesian Warden. 

So much for subtlety.

Resigning herself to being obvious, for now, Farrah settled in at the table with the others and piled her plate with food- she wasn’t sure what, all food was nourishing after all, so it didn’t matter what she grabbed.

“So, Remy,” she said, adopting a friendly smile. “What can you tell me about this masquerade we’ll be attending?”


	2. A Mask Must Shield the Heart

Farrah burst from her bedroom in a flurry of silks, her bare feet sliding on the tiles as she forcefully reminded herself not to panic. _After all_ , she thought as she turned her head to try and locate the source of the disturbance, _it would be very bad form on the part of the Chantry to have them all murdered on their very first evening in Val Royeaux_. And the Wardens wouldn’t permit it either, no matter how much of an arse Captain Fareaux might have been to them so far. She was mildly put out that the Commander of the Orlesian Wardens, one Antara Marchand, had not yet deigned to meet with them, but Remy had assured her with the most soothing tones possible that Commander Marchand would be present at the gala tonight. 

Small victories, at least. She couldn’t help but feel so far as if they were the poor cousins, tucked out of the way to minimise embarrassment as much as possible.

And now there was shouting going on in one of the other bedrooms of the villa; she couldn’t make out the words from behind the thick walls, but the tone being used was quite evidently irate. Justice, and Anders by the sounds of it, were yelling about something, and they argument was clearly a serious one.

A servant girl came scuttling towards her, coming from the direction of the room in question, and carrying an armful of what appeared to be linen bandages. She was all but running, and she nearly didn’t see Farrah until the last minute. “Excuse me, but what is-” Farrah didn’t get any further than that, because the girl started so violently at her voice that she dropped all of the bandages, jumping back a step with a tiny shriek. Only just resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Farrah said “Maker’s sake, there’s no need to cry bloody murder.” She knelt and scooped up the bandages- no easy feat in the multitude of petticoats she was layered in- and held them out to the startled girl as she stood.

The servant, for her part, was standing there with her eyes near bugging out of her head and her hands covering her mouth in horror. She didn’t take the proffered linens, and after a moment Farrah succumbed to the temptation to roll her eyes. “I’m not going to bite you,” she said, over enunciating each word. “What’s going on in there? Is there something-?”

Again, she didn’t get to finish, because the girl snatched the linens from her outstretched hands, and skidded past her, her face bright red. Farrah was left standing gobsmacked, her hands groping the air in front of her like an idiot, and a matching expression on her face she was sure. Laughter drifted back to her, from the direction the girl had fled to.

“Orlesians,” Farrah muttered incredulously, dusting her hands off on her skirts. “Mad as dwarven lyrium crafters. Loghain wasn’t half wrong about you, sometimes.”

The shouting had not ceased, but at least she had less to worry about. Sighing in relief that it was at least not an assassination attempt, she ignored the oncoming headache at the prospect of dealing with the two squabbling Wardens and pushed open the door.

Justice was standing in the centre of the room, arms crossed firmly over his chest and his face fixed into a scowl. He was only half dressed, with his torso bare but for a surprisingly lumpy bandage wrapped from his waist all the way up to his armpits. Anders was standing before him, brandishing a small white sachet in one hand and a dozen more cradled to his chest with the other. Neither of them looked happy, but the shouting abruptly stopped when they spotted her. Taking in the rather bemusing scene, Farrah was not at all surprised to spot Sigrun kneeling behind Justice, a terrifying array of knives lined up in the floor beside her.

Maker save them all.

“Dare I ask?” she said conversationally, indicating the various props they had at hand. 

Anders and Justice eyed one another cagily, as if daring the other to speak first. Sigrun had one hand over her mouth and laughter in her eyes, her shoulders shaking silently as she fought back the giggles. Fighting the urge to sigh and pinch the bridge of her nose against the imminent headache, she started to count to ten in her head.

_One, two-_

“Commander, you must tell Anders that his concerns are ill-founded and his precautions are nothing but a waste of time,” Justice said stiffly, all but snarling Anders’ name.

“That took two counts longer than I was expecting,” she muttered to herself, squaring her shoulders as she wondered how serious it was for Justice to resort to _Commander_ rather than _Farrah_ before anyone else had said a thing. “Very well then,” she said, for their benefit this time, “what exactly is it that you are concerned about, Anders, and what are these precautions you are taking?”

Anders’ face was tight, his displeasure evident as he said sarcastically “I _simply_ thought it _wise_ to take any measures possible in a public outing, and was _trying_ to explain to this _idiot_ that- _just maybe_ \- some of the more delicate elements of Orlesian high society might find his particular odour offensive.” He waved the sachet in his hand about wildly, as if to enunciate his point with more vigour. “It’s not an inconvenience to him if he has to wear a few of these strapped to his chest! But he won’t see reason-”

Farrah held a hand up for silence, and thankfully Anders knew her moods well enough to comply. “And what exactly are those?”

“Scented herb bags,” he said, sounding somewhat defensive. “You can set them in sick rooms to dispel the smell, or… you know… sometimes you can pack them in your luggage so that your clothing smells fresh when it’s unpacked after a long voyage.”

The last bit came out in a rush, and Sigrun- clearly expecting this confession- lost her battle with her giggles and broke into gales of laughter. She slumped forward, hiding her face in the back of Justice’s legs, the fancy blue fabric only mildly muffling her outburst. Justice, for his part, did not really seem all that perturbed by her flailing, glancing down at her only once before returning his glare to Anders. 

“I object to the notion that my usefulness to Farrah can only be measured by how well the scent of my body can be tolerated,” he said rigidly, his posture as stiff as Farrah had ever seen it. “Your assessment of my character is neither kind nor favourable.”

 _Oh, for the love of_ \- “Anders,” Farrah said carefully, “I appreciate your gesture, but you have hurt Justice’s feelings. I’d like you to apologise now.”

“But-”

“There is no but,” Farrah said, ignoring the fresh snort of amusement from Sigrun, “there is just a friend that you have upset by not thinking through what you’re saying. Please apologise to Justice.”

Jaw working as if he was only just holding back on retorting yet again, Anders spun on his heel and said stiffly “I’m sorry Justice.” It hardly sounded sincere, but Justice hardly seemed to notice, if the way his shoulders relaxed was any indicator.

Before either of them could open their mouths and start the argument anew, Farrah said “And Justice? Please allow Anders to continue. The last thing we need is for some fragile young thing with a powerful father to swoon because she’s not used to anything but the smell of money and flowers. We can’t get on the wrong side of anyone on this visit, understood?”

Looking triumphant, Anders’ hand darted forward and he stuffed a sachet into the very top of the bandages, above Justice’s crossed arms. The look Justice gave him was so scandalised and so very furious that Farrah couldn’t help herself- she burst out laughing, her hands quickly going up to cover her mouth as they both whipped around to glare at her. It was impossible to stop, however, and it was nearly half a minute before she could get her breath back.

“Have they been like this for long?” she choked at Sigrun, gesturing at the two Wardens.

Sigrun was wiping tears from her eyes, her face stretched into a permanent grin. “A good fifteen minutes before you got here,” she said, settling back on her haunches and letting the occasional chuckle out as she perused the knife collection in front of her. “Granted, it wasn’t nearly as funny until they had an audience they cared about, but still-” 

“We are _not_ performing for Farrah,” Anders said snippily, stuffing another sachet into the bandages and earning himself another glare from Justice.

Composing herself slightly, Farrah took a deep breath, still smiling. “And what precisely are you up to?” she asked, moving closer and looking at the knives.

“Oh, this?” Sigrun climbed back onto her knees and, selecting a knife from the collection, slipped it carefully into the bandages around Justice’s waist. It promptly slid out again, and Justice looked over his shoulder to glare at her. She smiled brightly in return.

“Doesn’t hurt anyone for you to have a few spare knives tucked out of the way,” she said, her tongue poking out in concentration as she finished retying the bandages around Justice’s middle. When she slid the knife in again, it stayed in place and she clapped delightedly. “You and Sparklefingers are both going armed; it’s only fair that we get to do the same.”

“Anders and I are not going armed,” Farrah said quickly, eager to lay this argument to rest before it even started. 

“Speak for yourself,” Anders said, waggling his eyebrows outrageously. “I am going armed with my razor wit and devastating charm, not to mention my shocking good looks. I am a walking _weapon_ , my lady. It’s a wonder I’m allowed out in public at all.” 

Sigrun giggled and Farrah rolled her eyes- she was smiling though. “Ignoring our preening popinjay,” Farrah said, turning back to Sigrun, “we are not taking our staffs. And we’re not taking knives at all.”

“We’re not?” Anders said, sounding genuinely surprised this time. 

“It makes sense, Farrah,” Sigrun said, sounding uncertain for the first time since Farrah had entered the room. She twirled a knife in her fingers, a tell as to how nervous she actually was. “If things go badly at any point-”

Farrah held her hands up instantly. “Nothing is going to go badly,” she said, her hands gesturing calmly as she spoke. “But if we go in with a poor mindset, it’s certainly not going to go well. It’s just a party, Sigrun- like in your books.”

“In the books, someone allows has a hidden sword tucked down the back of their dress.”

“Wouldn’t that get uncomfortable?” Anders asked, wincing in sympathy as he shifted the skirts on his official warden mage robe. The embroidery has just as exquisite as on Farrah’s dress, and she felt a moment’s envy that at least he didn’t have to wear a million petticoats to hold the damned thing up. “I’m itching to fiddle with mine, and it’s hardly even going to give someone a paper cut.”

“Where are you hiding a damned knife, Anders?” she asked in dismay.

He looked demurely to the side, the expression overdone of course, and said “A gentleman never reveals the location of his secret knife.” It sounded lewd- which she was certain was his intention. 

“Certainly not on the garter half way up his thigh,” Sigrun said mildly, slipping a sheathed knifed into Justice’s left boot. When Anders let out a strangled sound and glared at her, she blinked innocently and said “What? Your door was unlocked! Might as well have left it open for anyone to wander in!”

“Is there no such thing as privacy in this family?” Anders spluttered.

Throwing her hands up in defeat, Farrah turned and headed for the door. “Just make sure you’re all dressed and ready to go in about twenty minutes!” she called, shaking her head as she stepped out into the hallway. She noticed the way the tapestry on the far wall moved when she exited; marching across to it, she pulled it aside and found not one but three of the villa’s servants hiding behind it, their expressions of amusement giving way to abject horror at having been found eavesdropping.

“You,” she said, pointing to the male, “Justice needs someone who can tie a fashionable cravat. Get to it.” The young man scuttled desperately to get out of sight and do as she bade him- her lips twitched with the urge to smile at his unwarranted terror- and she turned her attention to the two remaining women. “And I need powders and paints. I’m assuming you have fashionable colours on hand?”

***

Having only been to the celebrations in Denerim, Farrah wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting, but whatever expectations she had were completely and utterly blown away by the extravagance of the evening. When Remy collected them, all smiles and laughter and an overabundance of winking, Farrah found herself caught up in the excitement along with the rest of them. Even Justice was restless, his fingers drumming endlessly on his knee in the carriage, his expression unreadable behind the bone mask he wore. 

She had to wonder whether it was a reflection on their characters at all that she and Justice had stylised skulls for masks, carved from polished bone, whereas Anders and Sigrun had glamorous silver masks- Anders’ mask was made to look like flames creeping across the top half of his face, whereas Sigrun’s mask was rows of intertwining lines and squares, made to look like her casteless tattoos. Farrah didn’t know whether or not it was taboo calling attention to the markings like that, but Sigrun seemed delighted with the mask, and it was exceedingly pretty at the very least. 

The four of them were waiting in a side room, ready to be announced to the assembled guests; Farrah felt decidedly queasy listening to the rumble from the other side of the door, well aware that this was not a small gathering by any means. Running facts about Orlais through her head as a way to try and calm down, she started when she felt someone squeeze her hand. Anders stood beside her, smiling crookedly from behind his mask; she thought she saw him wink but it was hard to tell. 

“Chin up,” he said, “and don’t look so sombre for once. Don’t let the bastards know you’re stressed at all, make them come crawling to you.”

“I’m not stressed,” she said quickly.

“Liar,” he said, grinning like a cat with a bowl of fresh cream. The door opened and the herald peered around the frame. “Messeres Anders and Sigrun, if you would, please,” he said coolly. Winking at her again, Anders bowed extravagantly low to Sigrun and offered her his arm; with a giggle and an equally elaborate curtsey she accepted, and the two of them followed the herald through the door.

Farrah heard the sharp crack of the herald’s staff against the marble, and the conversation in the next room dimmed just slightly. “Presenting,” he called loudly, “Warden Enchanter Anders, of Vigil’s Keep, and Warden Sigrun, also of Vigil’s Keep.”

There was a smattering of applause, and a small round of laughter; she could just imagine the two of them playing up to the crowd as they entered, and she half dreaded the prospect of Anders having cast some parlour trick for amusement’s sake. “Interesting, isn’t it?” she murmured, so as not to be heard through the open door.

“What is it, Farrah?” Justice answered dutifully.

“That they made special mention of Anders being a mage,” she said, straightening as she heard approaching footsteps. “It’s not like they mentioned that Sigrun is casteless, or from the Legion. Why point out one awkward background and not the other?”

“Perhaps our host has no love for mages,” Justice replied, his displeasure evident.

“Or maybe that was the introduction given to him by our friendly Warden allies,” she said quietly, nodding her acknowledgement to the herald when he appeared to usher them through. 

The ballroom beyond was dim, even lit with what had to be hundreds of candles on the chandelier overhead, and was crowded with the most people Farrah had ever seen in one place outside of a battlefield. She might have felt nervous, had she the time, but Justice was beside her and she slipped her arm through his quickly and stood framed in the doorway waiting for the introduction. 

The rap of the staff against the floor came again, and this time the room went near silent in an instant. She could feel the hundreds eyes upon her, and she made sure to smile slightly, just enough to ensure she didn’t appear severe at least. 

“Presenting,” the herald called into the silence, “honorary Warden Justice, of Vigil’s Keep, and the Hero of Ferelden, Slayer of Urthemiel, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Commander of the Grey, Conqueror of the Fifth Blight-” 

“That last one is a new one,” Farrah muttered to herself. “And I didn’t kill the damn demon.”

“Warden Commander Farrah Amell, of Vigil’s Keep,” he finally finished, to her great relief. As expected, the occupants of the ballroom burst into rapturous applause at her entrance, much louder and more enthusiastic than the polite round that greeted Anders and Sigrun. Keeping a firm grip on Justice, she slowly descended the stairs, concentrating freakishly hard on not tripping in her voluminous gown while holding up her mask and not dropping her gaze from the room. 

They had entered the gala, and ergo The Game. Body language from here on out was of the utmost importance, and she knew that if she wanted to impress herself upon anyone, staring at her feet as she entered for the first time was surely not the way to do it. 

Entering on the arm of a Fade spirit was a fairly good start though, just as she’d planned. Part novelty, part blasphemy, part terrifying indicator of the (fictional) forces at her command, she could hear the murmurs starting as the applause died down.

_Excellent. Let the games begin._

Remy was waiting at the foot of the stairs with a gentleman of middling years- his waist line was expanding and his hairline was shrinking and his attempts to cover both were abysmal. But the cut of his clothing was exquisite, and of the finest quality; likewise his mask was extraordinary, black as pitch and worked through with flecks of gold and a very familiar shade of blue. From the way Justice cocked his head to the side very abruptly, as if listening to something in the distance, she had her answer- the mask had tiny chips of lyrium stone embedded in the lacquer. The man was as foolish as he was rich, it seemed. 

“My dearest Farrah!” Remy cried, loud enough for a good third of the room to hear him; conversation had not fully picked up again after her entrance, so his voice carried in the vast ballroom. She fought the urge to grimace at his familiarity. “I would be tempted to say that you look divine, were it not blasphemous to say so! Might I instead impress upon you just how utterly exquisite you look tonight?”

He snatched her hand before she could refute him, and bent low over it. He stopped short of kissing her knuckles, thank the Maker, but not by much. 

“Your flattery is unnecessary, Warden Captain,” she said coolly, extracting her hand as discreetly as possible. 

“Hardly!” said the man beside him in a much thicker accent than his countryman. “It is not every day that we have a woman as extraordinary as the Hero of Ferelden herself gracing our humble halls!”

“The home of a peasant is humble,” Justice said bluntly. “Your halls clearly speak of generational wealth, hoarded and spent only on unnecessary luxuries, when it could do so much good elsewhere.”

For a horrified moment, Farrah just stood there stunned; thankfully, the two Orlesian men did as well. She could feel the satisfaction radiating from Justice, and she made a note to berate him later- _educate him_ , she corrected herself, _and gently_. She managed to recover herself before the two men, and said with a hint of ice “You must forgive Justice, he has such a black and white view of the world. It is often difficult for him to reconcile the experiences of one day to the next- having just recently come from a recovering war zone, only to see your magnificent home,” she gestured to the grand ballroom, bedecked with candles and swathes of silk and wreathes of wildflowers, “is a bit of a culture shock for all of us.”

Something flickered in Remy’s eyes that could have been approval if she’d had the time to look more closely, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. 

Their host- for that was who Farrah assumed the man to be- recovered himself, brushing down the front of his waistcoat in what seemed a remarkably nervous gesture. Surely it was a show, another play in the elaborate Game designed to throw her off. “Of course, of course,” he said soothingly. “It is, after all, a remarkably simplistic creature compared to ourselves. It is no wonder that the Maker abandoned its kind in favour of our own.”

The insult was direct, and Farrah felt instant outrage bubbling up within her on Justice’s behalf. “I _beg_ your _pardon_ -”

“Perhaps I am simplistic in your view, mortal, but I assure you your complexity grants you no great favours,” Justice said calmly, cutting her off. “I have no knowledge or memory of this Maker who is alleged to have abandoned my kind, so I fear your assumption I would be hurt at the reminder is misplaced. Additionally, Commander Farrah has taken it upon herself to address me with male pronouns, and I would appreciate if you would respect her precedent and do likewise. It will be so much easier and more pleasant for everyone involved.” 

Farrah didn’t know whether to hug him in delight or make childish gestures towards their host and yell ‘ _take that!_ ’ She resisted both, allowing herself a small smile instead as she stepped into the new silence and said demurely “But Captain Fareaux, where are our manners? Would you be so kind as to introduce us to our host? Here we are chatting away like old friends when we’ve yet to learn each other’s names.”

This earned her a look of censure from both the men- had she been too obvious, her sarcasm a little too thick, perhaps? Remy was flawless, however, smiling charmingly and laughing for the benefit of their myriad of onlookers. “But of course! My manners, alas, my manners, I will never live this down. Commander Amell, may I present to you Lord Gerard Elexis Victor Bajoynne, Duke of Val Chevin, and our most magnanimous host for the evening.”

“Not as many titles to my name as yourself, my dear,” the Duke said with a smile that could have been cynical, “but I hope you will find it _humble_ enough.” 

Farrah dropped into a curtsey, and thankfully Justice remembered enough of what she’d instructed him in to bow politely. As to whether or not he bowed to the correct degree, she wasn’t sure. Who could ever tell with the madly complex social laws and boundaries that existed in normal noble circles, let alone The Game? “We are most honoured to be your guests this evening, your Grace.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Bajoynne said, holding a meaty fist out to help her rise. She took it with apparent grace and was exceedingly proud of herself for not wincing when he placed a kiss on the back of her hand. Not even a shudder to give her discomfort away! “I trust you will enjoy yourselves tonight. Please, if you should desire anything at all, do not hesitate to ask.”

His eyes glittered from behind his mask, a striking blue that went uncomfortably well with the lyrium chips, and Farrah extracted her hand as politely as she could, fighting the jolt of revulsion that went through her at _that_ look. As if she would ever succumb to a drunken party tumble with a two faced toady who simply wanted the bragging rights of bedding the Hero of Ferelden. 

“Of course, my lord,” she said decorously, nodding her head in acknowledgement. 

“Now if you will excuse me, I have other guests to see to,” he said, dismissal evident in his tone. Remy smiled winningly at him, bright and sunny as usual, and ushered Farrah and Justice in the opposite direction of the stairs.

“I do not like him,” Justice said simply, and not at all quietly.

“Maker’s Breath, does your pet not come with a muzzle?” Remy said under his breath, his smile decidedly strained as the crowd parted before them politely. “It would be wise if he were to not make such definitive statements so openly.”

“Justice,” Farrah said warningly, but with very little censure. 

“Commander,” he replied politely. Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye showed that peculiar half smile to be lurking on his face, and she couldn’t help but grin in response. 

“Play nice,” she said.

“Nice is too complex for me, Farrah,” he said blandly, and even Remy snorted on a laugh. “I shall remain with what I am most familiar- honesty and integrity.”

“Oh Maker this will be an interesting evening,” Remy muttered.


	3. A Dance, My Dear

Remy led them to the far side of the ballroom, to an alcove that had a modicum of privacy thanks to a collection of potted ferns. The little recess was dim and intimate, with heavy velvet drapes and plush carpet underfoot- as opposed to the polished marble that composed the dancing floor- and was furnished with elegant chaise longues trimmed in gold and blue. There were half dozen people reclining on them, Anders and Sigrun among their number, and they both smiled warily when Farrah appeared.

She took the warning to heart. 

The general din of the crowded ballroom was swallowed up as they entered the alcove, and she very nearly glanced over her shoulder just to check that they hadn’t crossed some subtle magical threshold that she’d missed.

“It is designed with acoustics in mind,” came a languorous female voice towards the back of the den. There were candles scattered about, enough to see by without needing to grope about blindly in the murk, but even so, the speaker was shadowed enough to be considered appropriately mysterious. “The Orlesians do love their secrets, almost as much as they love keeping them.”

She was reclining alone on a chaise, the candlelight flickering over her silver gown like a lover’s caress. Farrah met her dark gaze steadily, well aware of who this woman was even without an introduction. She had read her file- she’d been sent a full briefing from Weisshaupt in the weeks before she’d left for Orlais-, so she knew what she was up against here. But even without the knowledge of the remarkable power this woman wielded, it was obvious she was a person of not insignificant influence.

She would have been easy to pick out even in the crowded ballroom, much darker than the pale women of Orlais who avoided the sun out of fear for their delicate constitutions- as if freckling was the enemy, not mighty Tevinter. She was a beautiful contrast, her richer colouring reflecting copper and gold in the light of the rooms’ sconces. In the intimacy of the small alcove she was radiant, draped in silver silks with the barest of blue trim, her eyes dark and her smile beguiling.

This was not a woman to be trifled with. 

Taking his cue, Remy leapt forward and announced with a flourish “Commander Marchand! If I might introduce Farrah Amell?” He gestured grandiosely towards the back of the alcove, towards the woman in silver. “Commander Amell, may I present Antara Marchand, the Commander of the Grey for Orlais?”

The woman smiled slowly, showing her teeth in the same fashion that a predator would. “Please,” she said, stretching a hand forward but remaining seated, “call me Antara. We are equals, are we not?”

Equals, but not equal enough for Antara to greet her publicly. Not equal enough for her to stand and greet her eye to eye. Not equal enough for Antara to cross the small space to shake her hand. Instead, Antara’s hand hung in the air, an invitation and an insult all in one. Farrah wasn’t expecting such artfulness from the word go, and for a crucial moment she hesitated. Accept the insult and shake her hand, or to stand her ground and see exactly what unfolded? 

_You’ve stared down an Archdemon,_ she reminded herself, _you can cope with one oblique warden._

Antara’s smile widened at her hesitation, and her fingers waggled in the air. “I don’t bite, you know,” she said, sounding far too amused.

Gritting her teeth at having been called out, Farrah stepped forward and took her hand, shaking a little firmer than was necessary. Antara’s grip was sure, and Farrah was momentarily surprised by the callouses she could feel on her palm- somehow seeing her in this environment, sensual and decadent, had caused her to forget the fact that this woman was a warrior, with decades of sparring and battle behind her. She had been expecting the same lily soft hands that the Duke had had. 

“Antara,” she said finally, nodding respectfully. A flicker of magic while their hands were joined told her that Antara was armed, but not magically warded or enhanced. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, believe me,” she said, relaxing back against the chaise again. “Please, won’t you have a seat? And you must introduce me to your companion.” Her eyes flickered to Justice, interest sparking in the depths. “I must admit you travel in odd company, Farrah. Your companions have been regaling me with tales of your antics.”

In the five minutes that it had taken Farrah to follow after them? She could hardly have heard everything, or even a fraction of their exploits. And surely Sigrun and Anders were sensible enough not to go blabbing about the goings on in Vigil’s Keep...

Yet when she glanced their way, neither of them would quite meet her eye. Oh, how fabulous. She’d left the two of them unsupervised for a grand total of five minutes and they’d already implicated themselves so heavily that they couldn’t look at her without guilt. If they made it through the evening without accidentally involving themselves in a coup attempt it would be incredible.

Adopting a smile of her own, Farrah looked around at the nook Antara had claimed as her own. “I must admit this is not the first place I expected to meet the Commander of the Grey,” she said, doing her best to sound casual. She’d started on the back foot with Antara, and she needed to claim that ground back. “This is not particularly a standard warden affair.”

“Orlais is a powerful nation, Farrah,” Antara said, indicating towards an empty chaise, “and I would be a fool not to acknowledge that and to take advantage of it to advance the circumstances of my wardens. Standard warden affairs are hardly going to win us power or advantage. We have many wealthy investors, and like with any relationship they need to be wooed from time to time- and that means entering their world.”

Farrah took the seat she had been offered, and Justice followed too quickly, sitting too closely. She very pointedly tugged her dress out from under his foot, which he didn’t seem to notice at all. Instead he sat ramrod straight and stared at Antara as if she were about to morph into some hideous abomination. “You take money from the nobles?” he said stiffly, his mind clearly drawing to illicit conclusions about her association with the Duke.

Antara waved his concerns away with a flick of her fingers. “Not all of us are lucky to be an Arlessa as well as a Commander,” she said. “We must take our money where we can beg it.”

That was more honest than Farrah was expecting from her. “I assure you, there’s nothing glamorous about being Arlessa,” she said. ‘If anything, it just makes things infinitely harder. Especially since Amaranthine City-”

“Infinite is an implausible unit of measurement, Farrah,” Justice interjected. “If we were to suggest that something was infinitely more difficult, we would be unable to put a completion date on it, because in completing it we would have reached a definite conclusion, and that would give us a measure in terms of time and resources-” 

“Yes, thank you Justice,” she snapped, hoping the dim light and the half mask hid her look of utter dismay and embarrassment. Justice, for his part, couldn’t seem to settle on being chagrined at her dismissal of him, or smug at having shown off in front of the rival Commander. She couldn’t truly blame him for being so desperate to guard against Antara; the whole situation had to be vastly confusing to him. That didn’t make his interruptions any easier to smooth over though. “I’m sure Commander Marchand doesn’t need the lesson.”

Antara had her hand over her mouth, but it didn’t hide the smile in her eyes. “No, no, Commander, you should let him speak,” she said, “he is delightfully refreshing after so much time spent with the elaborate deceptions the Orlesians play at.”

“But you _are_ Orlesian,” Sigrun said, with no small amount of confusion on her face.

“I’m Orlesian when it suits me, just as I’m Rivaini when it suits me,” Antara said with a smirk. “You know as well as I do that Wardens cleave to no nation.”

“That’s a technicality that I’m fast learning to overlook,” Farrah said, confused and suspicious now. Surely Antara did not mean for them to sit and chat all evening, sequestered away from the guests, when she had made such a point of needing to court her financiers.

“An ideal mindset,” she said, sitting forward; then, as if reading Farrah’s mind, she said “Perhaps we are well overdue to make our appearance together. It would do wonders for the gossip mills to see two fine Commanders, arm in arm, firm in their solidarity-” 

“I shall escort Farrah,” Justice said, interrupting once again. He was already climbing to his feet, as if he meant to challenge Antara for the right to walk on Farrah’s arm.

“Oh for goodness sake,” she muttered, resisting the urge to cover her face with her hands.

Antara was not perturbed, however. “But you must admit, dear Justice, that there is a certain thrill for two such powerful women to be seen together. There is an intimidation factor that will serve your dear Farrah very well while she is here.”

“She does not need your assistance to intimidate. She is very capable of cowing whoever she so pleases into submi-”

“Yes, alright, thank you Justice!” Farrah said, doing her best not to sound desperate. Glancing around the room so that she didn’t have to look at the laughter in Antara’s eyes, she spotted Sigrun holding a cushion up to her face. Her muffled guffaws were evident even over the noise of the ballroom behind them.

“My dear Justice,” Antara said, pausing to slip a silver mask on carefully over her hair, toying with it until it settled to her satisfaction, “you must not worry about Farrah. You are in Val Royeaux, the greatest city in the world! Is not your curiosity raging to be satisfied? Are you not craving adventure and novelty, to experience the most this world has to offer for you?”

“I crave nothing except justice,” he said stiffly. “Desires are the markings of a demon.”

“Of course they are,” Antara said sympathetically, and even Farrah believed that she was sincere in that moment. “Which is why we want to make sure that you are properly supervised, by someone who knows this world of extravagance and temptation intimately. Someone who can guide you and protect you from the worst of it, all while helping you to celebrate the best of it.”

Farrah frowned. “What-?”

Antara gestured to the furthest corner, to a figure that was mostly cloaked in darkness. “Amalié? My dear, you must not be so melancholy when there are guests to greet! Come forward, my dear, come forward.”

The shadow at the back of the alcove climbed to its feet, and Farrah could make out the form of a rather petite woman. She blinked as she caught sight of her face, convincing herself it was a trick of the light, and that the resemblance was passing at best. But then the woman stood before them, small and fragile, her dark blue eyes mournful and her dark choice of clothing as clear an indication of her grief as if she’d stamped it on her forehead. And there was no denying the resemblance this close- she was near identical to Aura, Kristoff’s widow.

For a moment Farrah stood dumbstruck, horrified by this turn of events. She didn’t dare turn to Justice at all, almost afraid to see what his reaction might be. The girl- for she couldn’t have been more than nineteen, at the most- was so similar to Aura that it hurt to look at her, reminded of those few painful conversations with the widow as she had struggled to come to terms with her husband’s death and Justice’s possession of his body. The resemblance might not even have been so strong if the girl wasn’t so obviously grieving for someone herself.

“Amalié is quite well versed in all things magical,” Antara was saying. “Her twin Stefen was a Spirit Mage-”

“Spirit _Healer,_ ” Amalié corrected, somewhat sullenly.

Antara waved her hand. “Words, my dear, words. He was a mage, and he was well travelled in the spirit realm.”

“The distinction was important to _him,_ ” Amalié said, her eyes flashing angrily for a moment before she subdued herself again. 

“Regardless,” Antara said, the hint of a frown passing over her face before she was all beguiling smiles again, “Amalié is here because she expressed a strong desire to meet your dear Justice. If there was anyone in all of Orlais fit to guide him through the mire and mystery of a grand affair such as this, it is she.”

“My parents are minor nobility,” Amalié said, addressing Farrah with an unhappy twist to her lips. She seemed to be struggling, stuck somewhere between tears and anger. “I’ve seen my share of ballrooms, grand and small. It is no great thing for me to be here; if anything it is an honour to meet you, Hero.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Farrah said quickly, her hand going out automatically as if to comfort her, as if she meant to rest it on her shoulder and offer her support and condolences for her clearly departed twin. But she didn’t know this girl, and her appearance here was no coincidence. Amalié looked far too much like Aura for her presence here to be mere chance, and Antara was clearly playing a complicated game just by herself- for all Farrah knew, Amalié was just as devious and the part of the grief-stricken young woman was simply another act. “Just call me Farrah. I’d rather avoid unnecessary titles. There’s no need to stand on ceremony with me, so Farrah is fine.”

Amalié nodded respectfully. “As you wish it, Farrah.” 

“Your voice,” Justice said softly, gravely. He was deathly still, frozen in place, face expressionless- with the mask in place, he revealed nothing. “You speak with the voice of another.”

Amalié laughed nervously. “The accents can take a little getting used to,” she said, rubbing at the back of her neck self-consciously. “We hail from the borderlands, near to the Nevarran border. The clash of tongues can sometimes seem unnerving to the uninitiated.”

From behind her, Anders let out an undignified snort and Remy and another- yet to be introduced- Warden made choking sounds as if they were trying desperately hard not to burst into laughter. Even in the dim light it was easy to see the colour that flushed into Amalié’s face as she realised what she’d said. 

“Oh, Maker, I didn’t mean- that’s not what I meant!” Her fidgeting increased tenfold, her hands incapable of staying still. She plucked at her skirts, tried to tuck errant strands of hair into place, twisted her fingers together at awkward angles; there was a fascinating nervous energy to her, something that Farrah couldn’t quite place. “I just meant-”

“Justice just means that you remind him of someone,” Farrah offered, unable to stand the girl’s discomfort for a moment longer. “You do look… remarkably familiar.”

She tried to keep the suspicion from her tone, and felt that she succeeded fairly well. 

“Stefen travelled often in the Fade,” Amalié said, apparently misinterpreting her. Farrah was certain it was deliberate. “And he met with a number of spirits in his time. Sometimes I was even able to speak with them, if they added their strength to his. Perhaps your friend knows me from Stefen?”

Antara interrupted with a clap of her hands, drawing all eyes back to her. “How marvellous that we are all off to such a splendid start,” she said magnanimously. “Amalié, you should continue your conversation with Justice in public, for now is the time for us all to be seen to be merry and joyous for the sake of curious eyes.”

Feeling desperately outmanoeuvred, Farrah smiled thinly as the assembled Wardens- who had not even been introduced!- all climbed to their feet, her own charges among them.

“I fancy a drink more than a dance,” Remy said, that winning smile firmly in place beneath his mask. “Care to join me, Anders?”

Anders blinked in surprise and glanced quickly at Farrah; he was as subtle as a drunk mabari pup, it seemed and she nodded her permission as discreetly as possible. It felt impossibly hamfisted, as if he’d all but shouted across the space to her, but there was nothing else for it but to carry on and hope she’d have a chance to talk to him later on about being more circumspect. He clearly didn’t pick up on her exasperation- although by the look on Antara’s face she knew at least someone had- and he nodded eagerly to Remy and followed him from the alcove. “Next to nothing to drink on that wretched boat,” his voice drifted back to them before being swallowed up by the background hum of the ballroom.

“I wouldn’t have minded a drink,” Sigrun groused, coming up beside Farrah, at the same time that Amalié said softly “Would you like me to show you the menagerie, Justice? Stefen always said his _esprit amis_ were rather entranced by children, and babies.”

First Anders, now Justice. Her ranks were being whittled away, and while she could probably keep an eye on Anders if he drank at the party, keeping Justice supervised if he left the manor to visit a menagerie- of all things!- would be impossible. “I don’t know if that’s necessarily wise,” she began, but Antara was speaking too. “What a delightful idea, Amalié,” she said, making shooing motions with her hands. 

“ _Hold_ ,” Farrah said, the word coming out on a snarl despite her best efforts. Justice had not moved, but Amalié ground to a halt with a look like a startled doe, and Antara went so far as to raise an eyebrow. “Justice is not to leave my sight, nor is it an intelligent idea to let a dead body into an enclosed space full of animals. Are you _trying_ to cause a panic?”

“And if I had been?” Antara asked quietly, her face for once deathly serious. But it only took a moment for a smile to part her lips, all teeth and charm and something not entirely safe. “But what a sight that would be, non? The ostrich’s plumage would rival that of some of the madams et mademoiselles, would it not?”

“Antara,” Farrah said softly, warningly. The air around her grew charged, the hairs on her arm standing on end as her magic seethed alongside her temper. 

Something flickered in Antara’s eyes, a hint of something- fear? Respect? Antagonism?- in the candlelight that was not in harmony with the smile on her lips, and Farrah felt a fierce surge of victory at having at least annoyed the other woman. 

“Amalié,” Antara said just as quietly, “please escort Justice to the menagerie. You may return in half an hour.” Farrah gritted her teeth and stared as Justice very reluctantly let himself be led away by the tiny blonde warden, his gaze drifting away from Farrah and down to Amalié. “Jon, Thérèse, would you be so kind as to show the dear Lady Sigrun to-”

“I’m nobody’s Lady,” Sigrun said dryly, “and I’m not so keen to leave Farrah, if it’s all the same to you.”

Taking a deep breath, Farrah said “It’s okay Sigrun. Go and enjoy yourself. Maybe it’ll be just like your stories promised it would be.”

Sigrun hesitated, clearly torn, but allowed herself to be led away by the two Wardens with the winning smiles… leaving Farrah and Antara alone, masked and armed in more ways than one. Definitely not the first meeting Farrah was expecting, and no matter what she did, she knew she was on the back foot. 

Antara indicated past the ferns, to the waiting ballroom and held out her other hand in invitation. “Shall we give them a show?”

Shrugging to feign nonchalance, Farrah took the offered hand. “Why not?”

As they stepped into the ballroom proper the noise increased, the protection that the little niche offered them gone. And with the noise came the realisation that her name was being whispered a dozen times over, from all corners of the room. It was distracting, and her gaze darted all over the room, to be met with discreet attempts to look away, eyes hiding behind silk fans and gaudy masks, smiling mouths concealed behind gloved hands to mute the whispers.

“Eyes forward, and smile,” Antara breathed, her fingers tightening momentarily over Farrah’s. “Do not let them distract or unnerve you.”

Taking a deep breath, Farrah did as instructed, faking the smile she didn’t feel when all she wanted was to collect her charges back behind her. _They aren’t ducklings, woman_ , she reminded herself. _You can’t tuck them under your wings and hiss at anyone who comes too close._

Wouldn’t that be a marvellous thing to do, though?

She let Antara lead her, and didn’t make any objection to being led to the dance floor. They’d had Orlesian dance masters back in the Circle Tower, as well as comportment and etiquette. She might not necessarily be up to the moment on the most fashionable dances, but she knew how to carry herself in most styles. Antara nodded politely to people as they passed, never stopping to chat, and Farrah followed her led. She was at least grateful for that, and the mask that concealed most of her irritation.

On the edge of the dance floor they waited hand in hand, a small circle around them as the other guests stepped away out of reverence. She had to admit, they made quite a pairing- she in the heavy, elaborately dark dress that made her skin seem all the more pale, and Antara in her simple silver affair that made her dark skin just about glow. When there was an appropriate lull in the music, Antara guided her forward, and the pair of them stepped into the dance as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Farrah managed to hold her tongue for the first few beats, concentrating on making sure she recognised the dance. It was a slightly modified version of a quadrille, the tempo a little faster than she was used to, but easy enough once she had the basic rhythm down. Once they were settled into the music, she found a moment where the other couples were not standing so close

“Your ‘ _divide and conquer_ ’ tactics are quite obvious, Antara,” Farrah said, careful to keep count of the steps in the dance. It would be the worst faux pas to trip in the centre of the ballroom, especially while locked in a battle of wits with her equal and rival. “I have to admit, I was expecting something more subtle from you.”

Antara tsked, her smile once again revealing that she considered herself several steps ahead. “And tell me, what is more relaxed and subtle than a Commander and her troops enjoying themselves in the company of comrades,” she asked, her eyes glittering from behind her bone mask. “Letting their guard down completely, appearing vulnerable in the eyes of any potential foes...”

“There’s nothing more stupid, at the very least,” Farrah said, holding her hands palms up to meet Antara’s hands before turning away again. “Why would we want to appear weak in front of a foe?”

“Why indeed?”

Farrah frowned at her. “Well, most people would have to assume that it’s a play, given that this is Orlais, and everyone assumes everything is a play.” Antara didn’t say anything, merely smiled as she slipped away in another graceful turn. When they were close together again, Farrah continued. “So a few people would think us to be weak, but they probably aren’t worth worrying about if they can be fooled so easily. But the rest, those who know it to be an act? What’s the point of fooling them? They know it’s a trick, and we know that they know, and they probably know that we know.”

“It’s because it’s expected, dear Farrah,” Antara said. 

“It’s expected that we attempt to fool them, and so we do just as they expect?” She had to wait for a response, as the motions of the dance required her to step to the side and dance for a moment with another partner. “You gave me no chance to agree or disagree with your plan, and you angered me needlessly. You took my Wardens out of my reach.”

“Your Wardens are not helpless waifs, and neither are mine.” Antara looked proud for the first time, obviously taking the same sort of fierce satisfaction in her soldiers that Farrah did. “Amalié has been a Warden for three years now, and a Bard for seven- do not let her noble blood fool you. Justice could not be in safer hands except if he were with you-”

“Justice is quite capable of looking after himself,” Farrah snapped, drawing the attention of several of the dancers in their set. “Not some doe-eyed girl you picked out deliberately to play on his guilt over Kristoff’s death.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Antara said nonchalantly, “but he has no experience with the intrigues of The Game, whereas Amalié does. And if he is to survive The Game, he needs someone he can trust to help him navigate the traps and pitfalls.”

“And so you use his own nature against him, forcing him to be noble out of some misplaced desire to protect her!”

“If it saves his life, so be it!” Antara spun the next turn with a little more force than was required. “As much as his presence is a boon to your reputation, he is a liability in ways you cannot imagine.”

Farrah gritted her teeth, struggling to keep track of the tempo in her head. “And Sigrun? Anders? I suppose they are liabilities too?”

“You know as well as I that the Chantry will not suffer multiple mages within the ranks for long periods of time, and yet you bring a repeat offender into the heart of the faith without a second thought,” Antara said. “The dwarf is delightful, I have no quarrel with her. But these are things to be taken into consideration, and you simply didn’t. I do not seek to divide and conquer, Farrah.”

“Well, what _are_ you doing then?”

The music wound to a close, and the two women slowed and faced each other, curtseying as was expected. There was a smattering of applause, much louder than at the end of previous dances, but it barely registered in Farrah’s head. “I seek to present as small a target as possible,” she said, “as any good leader would know. Remy will keep Anders well out of sight. Sigrun will be charming and sociable with the help of Jon and Thérèse, and will show a delightful side to the Wardens that many were not expecting. And Amalié will bring Justice back when the moment is right, to evoke fear and respect for your leadership, but without leaving him here long enough to rouse any sort of religious outrage.”

Her chin held high, Farrah couldn’t help but feel bitter at how outmanoeuvred she felt. “You could have consulted me on this beforehand,” she said stiffly.

Antara’s fierce façade melted away, and she smiled wolfishly once more. “Ah, darling Farrah,” she purred, “that is not the nature of The Game, is it now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To pre-empt any arguments, a chaise longue is a type of long couch, often designed for people to lie on. The spelling later became corrupted to lounge, which is how we know it today when talking about lounge chairs.


	4. When masks and chandeliers come down

The hallways leading towards the menagerie were all cheerfully lit, festooned with colourful tapestries and oversized portraits; it was certainly a long way from the dark corridors of Vigil’s Keep, still bearing the scars of the darkspawn siege some months ago. The Keep was still uninhabitable in places, entire corridors charred beyond recognition, the stone broken and crumbling. Even prior to the siege, it had never possessed this sort of vivacity and luxuriance. 

Justice was, of course, utterly suspicious of the whole affair. The Orlesians were proving themselves to be inconsistent and completely untrustworthy. They drowned themselves in riches when there were injustices to be remedied at their very feet! What use was a manor this large, if the Duke was not using it to house the hungry and the needy? Instead these Orlesians indulged in petty games and flamboyant politics which made no sense at all. Which of course made Amalié all the more confusing, because she did not _seem_ untrustworthy, but surely she _must_ be for she was of course Orlesian, but every now and then she would sigh softly as if she was expecting him not to hear it, and her eyes just seemed so soulful and lost... perhaps she was _supposed_ to be deceptive, but she was simply too pure of heart to be so.

Yes, that seemed about right. She was simply too young, too fragile, to have learned such petty ways already. She had not the heart to go through with the nefarious schemes they had thrust upon her. Such a lost child, trapped in the games of her elders. It was not _just_.

“Your brother is dead then,” he said, suddenly driven to fill the silence between them. The roar of the party had faded, nothing more than a background hum now, and their footsteps seemed far too loud even against the plush rugs scattered over the floors. She stiffened at his words, and turned her chin ever so slightly away from him, her throat working as if she was having difficulty swallowing.

“What makes you ask?” she said finally, flatly, her hands clasped gracefully in front of her. She had the same mannerisms as Aura- the same careful beauty, the same raw grief only just held in check by duty and propriety. They could have shared blood, their similarities were so close. Maybe all Orlesian women bore themselves in such a manner. Maybe he still had trouble telling one mortal from another. 

“You dress in black, the mortal colour of mourning,” he said, gesturing to her gown, ignoring the doubts that grew in his heart. Uncertainty was a path to temptation, indecision the door through which demons crept. He was ever guarded against demons. “And although my grasp of the passage of time is tenuous at best, I believe you have referred to him in what is called ‘ _past tense_ ’. Both of which strongly indicate to me that he is in fact deceased.”

“You would be correct in your deductions, messere,” she said, keeping her face turned away. There was a quaver in her voice, only minor, and she covered it after a moment. “Stefen died a few weeks ago in the Deep Roads.”

“Your brother died well then,” Justice said, “and with honour. And you need not call me messere. I am beholden to no mortal, save Farrah, and have no titles that require reverence at all.”

“Justice it is then,” she said quietly, pausing for a moment before saying in a voice laced with iron pride “And of _course_ my brother died well. He was a Grey Warden, and a Thibault. He died well, and with honour.” 

“Your brother could not retain the family name if he was a Warden.” This at least was a point of Warden lore that he understood.

Her shoulders straightened and her eyes turned to him for the first time, a hint of fire in the grey depths. “One does not simply forget the lessons and loves of a lifetime, spirit,” she said stiffly. “My brother was a Thibault regardless of what oaths he took. He was still my brother, still my blood.”

He had no idea how to respond to her- was she being argumentative or had he simply hurt her feelings? Her mood was odd, and emotions remained a mystery to him at the best of times. “You miss him,” he said simply. 

She was poised, controlled, hurting. He could no more read her than he could the cryptic runes of the ancient Alamarri, but her grief was in earnest. He had no idea what was expected of him, or why she had sought his company in the first place. “As I would miss a limb,” she said softly, heartbreakingly so and that was really all there was to say on the matter. They lapsed back into silence, no more comfortable than before even though they had conversed. 

But then, there was that time he had conversed with a hunger demon at length, preaching at the wretched beast in the hope it would see the error of its ways and turn from dark paths. That conversation had not precisely gone well either. Perhaps he was simply not meant for small talk.

They approached a set of arched doors, the wood dark and intricately carved to depict all manner of beasts and birds in some sort of chaotic dance. Presumably it was supposed to be considered art- it just seemed another frivolity in this den of opulence. There were banners on either side of the doors, wide swathes of brightly coloured fabric that displayed yet more creatures of the earth, with a red stag standing rampant above them all- presumably the Bajoynne arms. He stood patiently to the side as Amalié dealt with the locks and swung the door wide, ushering him through.

The menagerie was dimly lit, a great stone hall with grating set at even intervals along the floor, from which the haze of heat appeared. The room was lined with metal bars, divided into six cages, three to each wall. The cages were vaguely styled to replicate the natural world, and there was a faint tingle in the air to indicate that magic might be at work, but they were a poor imitation- the leaves of the stunted trees looked waxy and pale, there was straw over stone instead of grass and freshly turned earth, and the moonlight filtering through glass panels in the ceiling was weak. There was colourful bunting hanging from the rafters, and rich tapestries on the unoccupied walls, but did little to hide the fact that the room was a glorified prison. 

Justice stopped just inside the doorway and surveyed the room, unable to keep the sneer of distaste from his face. Amalié strolled slowly forward, hands still clasped before her, and came to a stop near to the centre. The animals were mostly asleep, though some had stirred at the sound of their entrance, and one or two sets of eyes glittered in the dim light. While the room was obviously well tended, the cages were not overly large, and when Justice saw a rather large feline slink up to the bars and yawn, fanged mouth gaping wide, he knew that this place was a vast injustice.

“Why have you brought me here?” he asked, his voice bouncing back from the far wall and rousing a few more of the animals. There was scuttling and scraping, the sound of straw shifting on stone floors, and a few unhappy grunts and hisses. 

Amalié was poised, perfectly still in a way that he finally recognised as dangerous far too late. “To gauge your reaction,” she said quietly, wandering over to the bars that contained the Mabari-sized feline. He wanted to warn her to be careful, for she seemed rather small compared to the fierce cat, but she possessed the same steely grace that Aura did and he held his tongue. “You are a creature not of this world, and sometimes your reactions are strange to us. I wanted to see how you would react to the cages.”

He did his best to read the meaning behind her words. “Other spirits have surprised you in the past,” he said, watching her for any confirmation. “Did your brother summon spirits here merely to question them? Were they merely novelties for the pair of you?”

Her head dipped slightly, the only indication that his words had any sort of effect on her. “The spirits my brother conversed with have no bearing on this,” she said, reaching her hand through the bars. He took a few quick steps forward, determined to drag her back from the danger she seemed ignorant of, but stopped incredulously when the beast instead stepped under her hand, purring as she rubbed behind its ears. “We had heard of you, of the battles you have fought, the causes you have spoken up for, and the Warden Commander wished me see if your fervour was as the reports said.”

“You seek to test me,” he snapped, bristling at the realisation that she was a part of the subterfuge after all. He drew himself up to his full height, furious at her deception. “You think you can _measure_ my dedication to a cause? I am a _spirit_ , madam, a creature without measure! I am will made manifest, power given form, I am purpose given opportunity! You cannot _measure_ that!”

She did not cower from his furious tirade; rather, she turned to him with a smile, her entire countenance changed. Gone was the quiet grief, the careful grace- instead she was a woman of confidence and victory. The grief was still there, in her eyes, but it was carried by pride, and she did not seem quite as stricken as she had moments earlier. “Precisely,” she said, “but we needed to know that your time in this realm had not dulled your zealousness.”

He fought back an absurd surge of displeasure, frustration the likes of which he had not encountered in all his time in the mortal realm. “You need only have asked me,” he forced out.

Her smile was wide, and calculating. “Ah, but my dear Justice, that is not the way of The Game,” she said. “And if anything, it has taught you that trust can be easily misplaced here in Orlais. You must be careful-”

The door handle creaked softly and they both spun about; the surprise on her face indicated she had not expected to be disturbed at all. A lanky sort of gentleman stuck his head through the gap, grinning toothily when he spotted the two of them. Behind them, the large feline snarled, and Justice took it for the warning it appeared to be.

“Evening,” he said cheerfully, pushing the door open further with his shoulder before sauntering into the room. His clothes were peculiar, not quite fine enough for them to pass easily amongst the rest of the guests, but adequate from a distance. His mask was plain and hung beneath his chin… and he was not alone. Two other men followed close behind him, both dressed unremarkably, both in possession of masks that were not currently in use, and both smiling a little too widely. The last through the door was quite careful to close it behind himself.

The first interloper smacked his hands together, rubbing them in what appeared to be glee. “Well now,” he said, his gaze lingering on Amalié that made Justice growl with displeasure. The goon’s eyes snapped back to him at the sound. “What sort of welcome is that? We’re here, all friendly like, and you snarl at us like a dumb mongrel.”

“It’s not like it’s intelligent enough to know any better,” one of the others said. “It’s hardly even real.”

“Course it’s _real_ , you dumb fucker,” the third one said, shoving him forcefully against his shoulder. “If it weren’t _real_ , how would it be walking around and talking, pretending to be a man and generally defying the natural order of things?”

Amalié was very abruptly beside him, when he’d hardly even noticed her move. “Are you armed, Justice?” she asked serenely, as if she was not at all concerned about the three armed and evidently hostile men standing before them.

The grin wavered on the first man, and he held out a hand. “Here now, don’t go getting any fancy ideas,” he said, his tone a great deal more forceful and hardly amiable. 

“I have a handful of knives in various places on my person,” Justice said, ignoring the villains before him. “They are not easy to procure.”

The man closest to the door went so far as to draw his blades, a twin set of knives of his own. “Let’s just gut them and be done with it! We weren’t paid to chat to them!”

Amalié stepped behind him, out of view, and there was a wooden crunch a moment later. She appeared a few moments later holding out a longsword for his inspection. “I apologise if this is not your usual fare,” she said, her hand disappearing inside her bodice and emerging a moment later with a sheathed knife. “But the bench was not long enough to conceal a greatsword.”

“I shall prevail,” he said, unable to quash a ruthless sense of excitement. “Are all of your Orlesian parties conducted in such a manner as this?”

The remaining two goons drew their weapons, and the three of them began to fan out, as if to try and flank them. “Knives up boys, that one’s already half dead,” the leader twirled his blades menacingly, “let’s help him get all the way there.”

“Most of them,” Amalié said pleasantly, rolling her shoulders back as if stretching the muscles. “My last three, at the very least.”

“Splendid,” Justice said, “I suppose there is something honest about this country after all.”

And with a thunderous roar, he leapt forward.

***

“Well that was awkwardly hostile,” Anders said, lounging against the far wall and watching as Antara and Farrah curtseyed to one another at the conclusion of the dance. There was a round of polite applause and the two women waved to acknowledge it before they were swamped by a crowd of eager well-wishers. He rolled the delicate crystal glass in his hand, the last of the wine sloshing onto his wrist; absently he lifted his arm up to his mouth and sucked the liquid away.

Remy’s gaze followed his movements, that ever present smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I must confess admiration for your dear Commander,” he said, taking a careful taste of his own wine. “She is quite an excellent opponent for Antara- I did not think I would ever see her so flummoxed and starry eyed as she is tonight.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call her-” Anders paused. “Wait, you mean _Antara_ is flummoxed and starry eyed?” At Remy’s nod, he made a scoffing noise. “Oh come on, now you’re having me for a laugh. That woman is _terrifying_ , and clearly in her element here- why by Andraste’s flaming knickers would she ever get tongue tied around Farrah? Farrah’s the most blunt, down to earth person I know.” He thought of Oghren and revised his statement. “Well, maybe not blunt, but honest.”

Farrah and Antara were moving to the far side of the ballroom, engaged in conversation with several rather important looking guests. Justice was nowhere to be seen, and Sigrun was holding court over a small group, entertaining them all with a tale that apparently required elaborate and wild hand gestures. Whatever story she was weaving was being met with gales of laughter and side slapping, and for a moment he worried for his dignity. He took another deep swallow of the wine, feeling the tingle all the way through him. “So what does one do for fun at an Orlesian masque, precisely? Woo pretty girls and boys, lie-cheat-steal our way into high society? Drink an inappropriate amount of Nevarran red and then dance until we throw up? I’ve not got anything to go off of except Sigrun’s ridiculous books, and they mostly advocate duels and quickies behind curtains.”

Remy choked on his drink, laughing and spluttering in equal measure; Anders thumped him on the back, a relatively pointless gesture but he felt awkward simply standing there while the man nearly died on account of his comments. “Maker’s Breath,” Remy choked, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve and panting for air. His cheeks were flushed, and his lips were stained from the wine- something that kept drawing Anders’ gaze back to his mouth despite his best intentions. “You Fereldans are a breath of fresh air, let me tell you. No artifice, no deception! It is marvellous to know that your heart is most definitely on your sleeve, so unconcerned about the consequences of your words!”

Anders felt a surge of panic at that. “Oh no, no no, no I definitely care about the consequences of my words,” he said quickly, “and especially words that might upset Farrah. She very specifically told us to be careful with what we said and who we talked to, and we weren’t to embarrass her or the Wardens or Ferelden and-”

“You could never embarrass your Commander, my dear Anders,” Remy said, gaining control of his lungs again and clearing his throat. “You are far too endearing for that.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Anders said wryly, “I’ve managed a few fairly spectacular near misses before. Alleged maleficar and murdering and the like tends to sully even the most golden of reputations.”

“Is that so?” Remy said, eyes twinkling merrily. He glanced around the room, searching out only the Maker knew what. “Here’s an idea,” he said slowly. “I happen to know where the Duke keeps a rather delightful cognac: I’d be thrilled beyond measure if you were to join me away from this crush and perhaps regale me with a tale of murdering and maleficars.”

Anders blinked in surprise. “Are you suggesting we just help ourselves to the Duke’s private stores?” 

Remy winked scandalously at him. “We are guests, are we not? It’s hardly helping ourselves when he is going out of his way to accommodate us.”

Mulling it over- the offer was highly tempting- Anders glanced towards where he had last seen Farrah. “I don’t know, the Commander-”

“Will surely have her hands full by now greeting various dignitaries and lords by now,” Remy soothed, sliding his hand down the wall to land on Anders’ shoulder. Anders tried not to jump at the contact. “It will be one less thing for her to worry about, if we were to sit somewhere quiet and out of the way, don’t you think?”

It did sound like a reasonable plan, and although Farrah’s warning earlier not to trust Remy was still hanging in his ears, it wasn’t like a fellow Warden would lure him away with malicious intent at all. “Cognac, you say?” he said, giving up looking for Farrah and instead smiling conspiratorially at Remy. “You know, I had a tiny bit of cognac when I was a lad- we stole it from the Knight Commander’s office and shared it around- and it absolutely knocked me flat. I think it’s well and truly time for round two.”

Remy wiggled his eyebrows. “Something to prove to your opponent, eh?” He laughed heartily and slapped Anders on the back, his hand coming to rest slightly lower than where it had been before. “Well then, who am I to stand in the way of such glorious battle? To arms!” He chuckled. “Or, as the case may be, to the floor!”

***

Sigrun twirled the cake fork elaborately, stabbing it into the air to punctuate each word. “And that’s when-” _stab_ “- we dropped that lyrium chandelier-” _stab_ “- right on top of-” _stab_ “- those ugly ugly critters.” She finished off with a rather firm stab straight down into the cushion beside her; the prongs caught on the fabric, and held, and for a moment it bobbed upright, swaying from side to side before toppling over and onto the floor.

Jon and Thérèse, her two Warden escorts- she wasn’t foolish enough to think of them as anything other than minders, to ensure that she toed the line or some such nonsense- gasped and shuddered an appropriate amount, given that they were likely to know what a Broodmother actually was, while the other guests- who she’d been introduced to, but all the names had gone in one ear and out the other- ooohed and aaahed in horrified fascination. The woman sitting beside her on the couch fanned herself frantically with a lace fan, murmuring something about being lightheaded. 

Sigrun resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead taking the opportunity to help herself to another slice of cake from the sideboard. It was fluffy and smothered in sugared cream- a decadent opulence they very rarely saw in Amaranthine, and which she’d never experienced in the Deep Roads. She was growing very quickly enamoured with it, and she had to wonder whether she could convince Varel or Woolsey that it was a legitimate expense for the Keep. 

“It’s hard to imagine these creatures are even real at all,” one young man with a painfully thin moustache said. He was wearing a ridiculously ornate mask shaped like a roaring lion, and the sight of his pathetic moustache beneath the gaping fangs was unintentionally hilarious. “And responsible for the darkspawn themselves! How wretched!”

Sigrun nearly choked on the mouthful of cake when she saw Thérèse most definitely roll her eyes. “ _Wretched_ is certainly one way of looking at it,” the Orlesian woman said wryly, taking a careful sip of her wine. She was wearing a deep blue mask, with silver trim, and it settled gloriously against her golden skin; Sigrun had to admit, however, that the most fascinating thing about Thérèse were the tattoos inking up her arms and neck, the ink as sharp as if it had been set down that morning. Tattoos, she had found, were not particularly common in Ferelden, and she’d had more than a few comments about her own markings since she’d come to the surface. It was a pleasant surprise to find a woman wearing ink as proudly as Thérèse did. “I, personally, would choose stronger words,” Thérèse continued innocently, “but I was always inclined to _dramatics_.”

The moustache frowned at them, eyes narrowing behind his mask, and Sigrun fought to keep a straight face against his scrutiny. It was difficult.

“And you managed to drop an entire chandelier,” the lightheaded woman said, apparently oblivious to the veiled insults that Thérèse had just lobbed at her companion. “Yet you are so small.”

Jon tried and failed to keep in an incredulous bark of laughter, and it didn’t help Sigrun’s attempts to hide her own laughter when she glanced at him. Maker, surely these people couldn’t be _that_ witless; why would her two Warden minders have agreed to sit with someone so completely inane? Unless of course it was merely for the sake of amusement. “Who would have thought?” Sigrun choked, doing her best not to just laugh outright. Given the way Messere Moustache scowled at her, she knew she wasn’t doing the best job.

“Oh, lighten up Alain,” Jon said, cuffing him over the shoulder. Sigrun did her best to retain the name this time. “The lass has survived her whole life in the Deep Roads, including running around solo with a broken rib. You can’t even manage breakfast with a broken nail.” 

Alain the Moustache stiffened. “Ser, you insult me,” he hissed, drawing himself up to his rather diminutive height- he was only about a foot taller than Sigrun, and she counted that as short for a human. 

“Well, he wasn’t paying you a compliment,” Thérèse said mildly, winking at Sigrun from behind her mask. “If you actually feel slighted, you could always challenge him to a duel. I’m sure a _brave_ and _principled_ swordsman such as yourself would have no trouble defending yourself in a battle for honour. Shall I make the arrangements?”

The young lordling flushed bright red, and all but cringed. “That, ah, will not be necessary, messere,” he said, backing away slightly. “I doubt the Duke would appreciate the disruption to the festivities.”

“I’d say he’s counting on it,” Jon said, almost amicably. He made a show of rolling his shoulders, the muscles straining at the fabric of his fine dinner jacket. His swung his rather substantial arms from side to side, as if warming up for a confrontation. “It’s sure to make the social pages, and if there’s one thing Bajoynne loves, it’s attention.”

“By the Stone,” Sigrun said, gazing from one to the other with almost childish glee, “you don’t actually duel do you? Like in the books? Terrible duels of honour that end up taking down entire families and involves illicit affairs and secret assassinations and long lost heirs and what not?”

Her outburst was met with a moment of stunned silence, before Thérèse laughed, tipping her head back and cackling, while Jon smiled wryly and said “Or, we just go outside and Alain wets himself when I actually draw my sword and we call it a job well done.”

Alain reddened even further, and huffed loudly, before turning on his heel and marching sharply away; his exit was even more ridiculous given that his ostentatious mask was fully visible as he tried to mingle with the crowd, the roaring lion tall enough to be seen over the heads of fully half the guests.

“Was that really necessary?” one of the other men present said, a silent and stoic type who had only nodded in greeting when he’d been introduced to Sigrun. “His uncle is a powerful man, Jon. I hardly think the Wardens need that type of attention.”

“As if anyone would be willing to say anything with the Hero herself visiting,” Jon said, grinning as he flagged down a passing servant and snatched up a new glass of wine. He took a long swallow. “Besides, he couldn’t afford to insult Bajoynne as well, and as the host that’s exactly what he’d be doing.”

“It _is_ just like in the books,” Sigrun said breathlessly, staring dreamily at them. “Next there’ll be a marriage proposal or something else scandalous.”

Thérèse chuckled. “I assure you, my dear, most of the time our outings are far less outrageous than this,” she said, patting Sigrun on the knee. “Most of the time we just lurk in the corner and make fun of fashion and debate whether or not the tapestries are real silk or if the chandeliers are quality crystal, and just let Antara do all the-”

“They’re not,” Sigrun said, taking a decent bite of her cake.

Thérèse hesitated for a moment. “They’re not what?”

“The chandeliers,” Sigrun said, indicating the ceiling with her fork. Overhead hung several glittering chandeliers, with a rather huge one suspended over the dance floor. “They’re not quality crystal. It doesn’t sound right. It might be calcite, maybe, or some kind of common quartz? It’s hard to tell at this distance and with all this noise in the room.”

Silence met her words again, and Jon was the one to break it with “I’m sorry, but… it doesn’t _sound_ right?” 

“That’s right,” Sigrun said. “The song of the stone- it’s hard to explain. It’s not quite like sound, but it’s the closest approximation. It’s sort of like… a sixth sense? Stone sense, we call it. Anyway, those crystals up there, there’s enough of them to make a noise even against this crowd, and they don’t sound right.”

“Don’t sound right how?” Thérèse asked, leaning forward, chin resting in her hand. 

Sigrun scrambled about for the right explanation. “Sort of like… ummm. Hmm. Oh! I know!” She clapped her hands together in glee. “You hear a crow cawing, and most people don’t find the noise that pleasant, or even ugly, but if they heard a nightingale singing, they’d call it lovely and musical. But they’re both birdsongs. So, rocks make all kinds of sounds, and some of them can sound unpleasant and some of them can sound really lovely. And those ones-” She pointed towards the roof “- do not sound lovely.”

Jon and Thérèse glanced at each other and both broke out into a grin. “This requires testing,” Thérèse said, her gaze drifting to the chandeliers overhead.

The other woman on the couch looked torn, eyes flitting from Jon to Thérèse to Sigrun and then back to Jon. “Is this… you aren’t planning a scene are you?” she asked nervously.

“Possibly,” Jon said, casting her a wink. The woman blushed, and fanned herself again. The other guest, the silent man in the corner, simply chuckled and shook his head. When Sigrun looked back to Thérèse, she was holding the tiniest, most elegant crossbow that she’d ever seen. The whole contraption fit snugly in the palm of her hand, and in the other hand she twirled what had to be the crossbow bolt- although it was hardly larger than a toothpick.

“Tell me, Sigrun,” Thérèse said, smiling slyly, “you’re a rogue- how good are you at precision shooting?”

***

Farrah set her glass aside on the tray of a passing servant and attempted not to let her discomfort show. The wine was going to her head, and the food was fiddly and elaborate and not nearly filling enough to stave off the effects of the alcohol. She smiled thinly at a greeting called out in passing, suddenly desperately in need of a quiet room and more gentle company. The tricks and cunning of the Orlesians were mind boggling, and her head was spinning trying to keep track of who was possibly an ally, who was possibly an enemy and who was probably just an idiot. 

She managed to catch Antara’s eye, and the other woman carefully extracted herself from her conversation and made her way over. “All well, Commander?” she asked, putting a hand familiarly on Farrah’s upper arm. The intimacy of her body language and her closeness made Farrah uncomfortable, and she itched to put space between them. She managed to refrain, for she knew it was something that would generate unpleasant gossip. 

“Actually, I was wondering if there was a washroom at all,” Farrah said, hoping that she would at least be left in peace if it was assumed she was dealing with private ablutions. 

“Of course,” Antara said, turning them to face towards the back of the room. There was a wide, shallow set of stairs that went up to a second tier, a half level where guests continued to mingle and gaze down upon the dance floor. “If you head to the back of the balcony, you will find a number of doors. All of them exit onto a long hallway, and if you turn right and follow it to the end you will find the wash room set aside for ladies. If you get lost at all, there are any number of servants who will be able to guide you.”

Farrah smiled at her, trying her hardest to make it appear genuine. “I’m sure I can manage; it sounds fairly straightforward.”

Saying that, she carefully drew away from Antara so that it didn’t look rushed, and made her way up the stairs. She nodded politely at those who made eye contact, and quickened her step when it looked like one or two of them might try to engage her in conversation. Thankfully they let her go, and the hallway was just as Antara had predicted- straight and narrow, with a large door at the end. 

Halfway down the hall, a door opened on her left and a tall gentleman stepped out in somewhat of a rush and slammed straight into her. Farrah let out an ungainly squawk as she went flailing backwards onto the floor, oomphing at the impact and just biting off a curse when her assailant went tumbling as well and landed across her legs. It took her a few moments to get her breath back, and when she did she realised that the fellow was well and truly drunk, and as he attempted to regain his balance his hands were taking rather unwelcome liberties. 

“Oh Maker, oh my, you simply must forgive-”

Farrah didn’t give him time to reply. The idiot might be drunk, but he still retained enough of his wits for his hand to slide under her skirt and grope her thigh on the pretence of getting to his feet? Not on her watch. When his hand fumbled above her knee, she kicked out at him, intending to get him in the chest and push him off of her. Instead the fool chose that moment to move, and her foot connected with his nose. 

There was a crunch, and he howled in pain; Farrah didn’t feel all that sorry for him, and the moment his hands fell away she rolled out of reach, scrambling to her hands and knees. Getting to her feet in all her petticoats required a little more balance, but thankfully she had the wall to use, and the moment she was upright she put a few feet between herself and her drunken swain. 

The fool was crouched on the ground, his hands pressed up against his face; blood leaked liberally from between his fingers, and he glared at her. He was sensible enough not to say anything though.

She would dearly have loved to have said something witty and cutting just then, but the initial surge of adrenalin was quickly fading and instead she was shaking, trembling so violently that she had to put her hand on the wall so she didn’t keel over again. After a moment of trying to think of something to say to him about how distinctly inappropriate it was to manhandle strange women in public hallways- or private hallways for that manner, or familiar women too- she instead just cast him what she hoped was a withering glare and stormed past him and into the washroom.

It was set up as somewhat of a little sanctuary, complete with chairs in the main room and curtained areas for women to take care of their needs. With a groan she slumped down into one of the chairs, thankful that the suite seemed empty for the time being. She buried her face in her hands, her mask sliding up on top of her head and probably ruining her carefully styled hair, but that was the least of her worries. Really, she was seriously contemplating hiding in here for the remainder of the evening, maybe taking a nap in one of these curtained rooms, but she knew she couldn’t leave her Wardens alone with that seething, backstabbing crowd. Duty always called.

As did nature, of course, and with a sigh she stood and made her way behind one of the curtains.

She took her time, because she genuinely had no desire to head back out into that crush, but there was only so much she could put off. 

She washed her hands in the basins provided, pleasantly surprised to find the water lukewarm despite the late hour. The servants were clearly very attentive here, or the Duke was just particularly anal about their duties. There were fresh towels stacked neatly on a side table, with a basket of soiled towels on the floor. Farrah nodded to herself, acknowledging that it was a rather nice touch and wondering whether it would be worth doing something similar in the communal washroom back at the Keep. 

Sighing, aware that she’d probably been absent for long enough to raise eyebrows, she stopped once before the looking glass to inspect her appearance. She straightened her mask and tugged at her hair, tucking a few errant strands back into line and patted down her skirts. Her shoe was slightly blood stained, and made of satin, so no doubt she’d ruined it entirely. Satisfied that this was as good as she was going to get at this point, she let herself back out into the hallway and headed back towards the noise of the party.

Halfway down the hallway, she heard a wretchedly familiar voice drift back towards her and she ground to a halt. “It’s nothing, my dearest, nothing at all, I simply had too much to drink and tripped over an errant chair leg.” Her would be paramour was nearby, and not fancying running into him again so soon she ducked into the nearest room and slammed the door behind her.

There were twin gasps behind her and she spun about, pressing her back to the door. She seemed to have wandered into a study, or perhaps a private library: dark wooden panels on the walls, plush carpets underfoot, and a wide divan against the far wall… upon which Remy sat with Anders sitting astride him, masks tossed aside and hair wild and loose. There were empty glasses on the floor near their masks, and an empty decanter. Their faces were flushed, and their lips were swollen, and they had a wild, glazed sort of look to their eyes.

Well then. She’d clearly just interrupted a tryst. 

“Oh Maker,” she babbled, fumbling for the doorknob at her back, “um, _fuck_ , just carry on, don’t mind me, I’ll be going now.”

She threw the door open and all but hurled herself out into the hallway, nearly knocking down a group of women headed for the washroom. Babbling more apologies, she had to fight herself not to sprint back down the hallway and out into the open. Stopping to catch her breath and calm her breathing, she stepped back into the ballroom just in time to hear a scream from the far side. 

Her stomach lurched, and this time she ignored her sense of propriety that told her not to run, and pushed her way through the crowd. She came to a stop at the stop of the stairs when she spotted Justice on the lower tier standing beside Amalié, and both were splattered with blood and looking pleased as punch. There was a young woman on the floor near their feet, and for a horrified moment Farrah thought that they might have killed her. When Justice turned her way and spotted her, his grin was so childlike and proud that she felt a tug somewhere in her chest that made her want to grin in return.

“Commander!” he called, waving a sword in the air above his head and making the guests nearby shriek and take several steps backwards. “I was right! The herb bags were unnecessary!” he crowed triumphantly, gesturing to the half unconscious woman at his feet. 

Revelation came to her, and Farrah realised that the woman must have swooned at his appearance- and the smell, she had to admit- and he of course didn’t think to connect his wild and bloodied entrance with her fainting. She felt a presence at her side and glanced across to see Antara standing there, slightly wild eyed. 

“Well, Commander,” she said, “you and your Wardens certainly know how to make an impression.”

***

“And that was about when the chandelier fell,” Farrah said, blowing on the mug clutched between her hands and taking a tentative sip. She winced, the beverage still slightly too hot to drink, and instead enjoyed the warmth seeping into her frozen fingers. It was good to be home, but Maker’s Breath Amaranthine could get cold. “Sigrun hadn’t really needed much encouragement from Jon and Thérèse to cause mischief, and I think she was eager to show off a little. They just meant to chip a little piece off and collect it without anyone noticing. Thankfully everyone was over watching the debacle with Justice and Lady Juliette, so no one was even hurt. And sensibly, they’d picked one of the smaller chandeliers hanging over the buffet tables, so it wasn’t likely to come down on anyone at all.”

Varel had an expression of abject horror on his face, his mug sitting forgotten on the table in front of him. “And this all happened on the very first _night?_ ” he asked.

“Oh Maker yes,” she said mildly, attempting another sip of the drink. “You should hear about the _rest_ of the trip sometime.”


End file.
